The Laughter of Dead Kings (15 page)

“Good God, no. And if she ever finds out…”

“She won’t,” John said impatiently. “If you keep your mouth shut. I trust you talked her out of coming with us?”

“Yes. Have you spoken with Ashraf yet?”

“I guess I’ve left him dangling long enough. Hang on.”

We could hear only John’s end of the conversation, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the intervening lines.

“We accept your proposition…

“I know. I assure you, we won’t waste any more time…

“Tomorrow. We would appreciate it if you would make arrangements. In view of the fact that our earlier flight was—er—canceled…”

He was silent for a while, listening. His expression didn’t change much—nothing so obvious as a raised eyebrow—but I knew the outlines of his features well enough to know he’d heard something he didn’t like.

“Very well,” he said and snapped the cell phone shut.

“What?” Schmidt demanded. “What did he say?”

“He’ll see that we catch the ten-thirty flight tomorrow. He’ll send his car for us and make reservations at the Winter Palace.”

“The Old Winter Palace, I trust,” said Schmidt, still feeling no
pain. “The New is not acceptable. I had better call and reserve my usual—”

“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “I mean, please shut up. Something’s gone wrong. What’s happened, John?”

“The guard, Ali—the only one except Feisal who saw that empty coffin. He’s disappeared.”

N
ext morning Ashraf’s car delivered us to the terminal and we were whisked through the formalities by an efficient young woman who spoke English with a pronounced public school accent. Once we were on the plane, Feisal said it again.

“He’s gone into hiding. Ashraf put the fear of God into him.”

I said it again. “That isn’t Ashraf’s version.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he thought he was being affable, but to simple souls like Ali he’s the voice of the Almighty, authoritative and unpredictable. Ali may have decided the safest course was to make himself scarce until things settle down.”

“Drop it,” John said. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

And gotten nowhere. Feisal’s explanation could be the right one. If I had been in the shoes of the unfortunate guard, I’d have run for cover too.

W
e were greeted at the Old Winter Palace by the manager, a handsome white-haired gentleman, another of Schmidt’s dearest friends, who personally escorted us to the Presidential Suite. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which incorporated a tub big enough to do laps in. I could tell by John’s expression that he wasn’t keen on being separated from Schmidt only by the width of the sitting room, good-sized though it was; but there wasn’t anything he could do about it since Schmidt had “forgotten” to reserve another room for us.

After lunch we headed for the West Bank. It’s a somewhat tortuous process—taking one of the gaily decorated motorboats across the river, picking up a taxi on the other side, and driving for a considerable distance. I hadn’t seen much of Luxor during my last visit, being primarily concerned with avoiding a number of people who bore me ill will. Schmidt had been there many times, but he gaped out the taxi window with that childlike sense of delight that is one of his most charming characteristics, commenting on the changes that had been made and asking questions of Feisal. He didn’t get many answers; the closer we got to the Valley of the Kings, the more tense Feisal became. It was with some difficulty that we persuaded him to hop on one of the electric trams that carry visitors to the entrance instead of setting out at a dead run. The sun was high and hot and the air was dusty and I didn’t want my chubby little boss to tire himself. Schmidt had decked himself out in one of the white linen suits he had bought in Berlin, and a natty panama hat which I hadn’t seen him buy. I wondered what the hell else he had in that overweight suitcase.

The tomb of Tutankhamon is a couple of hundred yards from the entrance to the Valley. I don’t know what Feisal had expected, or feared—that the tomb would have vanished along with Ali, or
that it had been invaded by importunate tourists—but he let out a long sigh of relief when the rectangular opening came into view. It was closed by a heavy iron gate. A party of tourists was talking with the guards—or rather, to judge by their shrill expletives, trying to argue their way in. One of the men was wearing shorts that bared long hairy legs; the women bulged over the necklines of their skimpy Tshirts. When the harassed guard caught sight of Feisal he let out a cry of relief and ran to meet him.

Feisal disposed of the tourists with a few brusque words. They dispersed, sulking and muttering. Arrogant idiots like that have always been with us and probably always will be. I remembered the story of how Howard Carter had lost his job with the Service des Antiquités by defending his guards against the pushy drunks who had tried to force their way into a pyramid at Sakkara.

After an animated discussion with the guard, Feisal said, “Ali didn’t turn up for work yesterday. Mohammed here went to his house to inquire about him; his wife claimed he hadn’t come home the night before. I’m going to see her.”

“All in good time.” Hands in the pockets of his jeans, John gazed thoughtfully at the dark entrance to the tomb. “Can we get in?”

“Why?” Feisal asked.

“The scene of the crime,” John reminded him. “I know you’re worried about your subordinate, but I should think you’d want to make certain it hasn’t been disturbed.”

“Yes, that is the correct procedure,” said Schmidt. “I have brought a camera to record the clues.”

“Good thinking, Schmidt,” I said.

“And a notebook and pen.” Schmidt thrust them into my hands. I ought to have known I’d be appointed secretary. I thrust them back into Schmidt’s hands.

I have been accused by some (John) of learning all my history,
except that which pertains to my own limited field, from popular novels. I had read a couple of reports about the discovery of this tomb, including that of Howard Carter himself; it’s almost as exciting as fiction. But I will admit that the version I remembered best was in a novel by some woman whose name I couldn’t recall. It claimed to be based on actual journals by actual eyewitnesses. I had never bothered to check her facts. Why should I, it wasn’t my field.

The last (and first) time I had called on King Tutankhamon, the tomb had been open to tourists. Today, everything looked the way it had before: the massive stone sarcophagus and its heavy glass cover smeared with dust and fingerprints, the golden shape inside. Schmidt stopped me with a warning shout when I was about to proceed into the small tomb chamber. From his pockets he extracted not only a digital camera but a large magnifying glass.

“The lighting is not good,” he complained, bending stiffly and squinting through the glass. “Has anyone a torch?”

“No, nor a fingerprint kit,” said John.

“Then we must get one.” Schmidt increased his angle of inclination, with imminent danger to the seat of his trousers.

“You’ll find hundreds of prints,” Feisal said. “Mine and Ali’s—”

“And those of the miscreants who removed the king.” Schmidt straightened and waved the magnifying glass. “Perhaps some of them are in the files of Interpol or another agency.”

“To which we have no access,” John said patiently. “Go ahead, Feisal. Don’t bother looking for footprints, just see if there is anything unusual, anything that is out of place.”

“Bloodstains,” said Schmidt, his eyes gleaming.

“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”

The floor wasn’t clean. In addition to the dust, there were bits and pieces, scraps of paper and bread crumbs, orange seeds and a pile of mouse droppings. Most of them had been there for weeks, if
not months. Schmidt photographed every square inch of the damned place—the dusty floor, the painted walls, the sarcophagus and its contents. After I came across the mouse droppings I abandoned the hunt and joined Feisal, who stood looking down into the sarcophagus.

The golden face, with its beautiful inlaid eyes, stared up at me. It didn’t question or demand. It was dead, inanimate. Feisal, fingers clenched over the edge of the glass, said suddenly, “I keep thinking he’s still in there.”

If you want to hide something, put it in the least likely place, a place that has already been searched, a place so obvious, no one would think of looking there.

I read too many mystery stories. But there was a certain insane logic to that premise; hadn’t John said it would be difficult to smuggle Tut out of the Luxor area? What if “they” had come and put him back? Once the ransom was paid, they wouldn’t have to risk producing the mummy, they would just have to direct the searchers to the tomb. And what if Ali was the only witness to their second visit? He had disappeared. He couldn’t bear witness to anything.

“If he’s there, he’s missing a hand,” I said, trying to convince myself of the absurdity of the idea. “Uh—can you tell whether the coffin lid has been moved since you and Ali put it back?”

Unfortunately Schmidt overheard the question. I say unfortunately because he has an imagination even more lunatic than mine and a greater familiarity with sensational fiction.

“Aha!” he shrieked. “The old Purloined Letter trick! Brilliant, Vicky, brilliant!”

There was no restraining him, and by that time I had half-convinced myself. Even with four of us it was a tricky job manipulating the glass cover and the coffin lid; I couldn’t imagine how Feisal
and Ali had managed it. Sheer desperation, I supposed. Feisal kept repeating, “Be careful! Don’t damage it!”

“Get a grip,” John said impatiently. “Pun, deliberate. You can blame any damage on the thieves. Ready? Lift, shift and lower. One, two…”

We didn’t have to shift the lid far. It was dark down in there; Feisal slid his hand through the gap, which I wouldn’t have done, and felt around. His face fell.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It was a preposterous idea,” John said.

“But it had to be done,” Schmidt said.

“Quite so. Leave no stone unturned, no coffin lid unlifted. I see no point in moving it back, do you?”

He addressed Feisal, who shook his head. “If anyone gets this far, we’re lost anyhow. Just replace the glass so it doesn’t fall and break.”

Just, he said. We got the job done, though I pulled something in my shoulder, and Schmidt mashed a finger. Our first casualty, I thought, as I wound a hankie round his hand. Schmidt rather enjoys being wounded in the course of battle; he nobly refused my suggestion that we return to the hotel for more extensive first aid.

“We must go at once to the house of the poor guard and question his wife,” he insisted.

“There’s no need for you to come with me,” Feisal said. “You should get that finger cleaned up, Schmidt, it’s only too easy to get an infection here.”

“It has bled freely,” said Schmidt, admiring the stained hanky. “You will want witnesses, Feisal, and persons skilled in interrogation. Vicky will take notes.”

Feisal locked the gate and switched off the lights. We made our way back to the entrance; Feisal hailed a taxi, and I asked, “Don’t you rate a car and driver?”

“I rate an ancient Jeep. It’s in the shop. It usually is.”

From his sour tone I figured he was thinking of Ashraf’s upholstered limo and squadron of assistants.

The road led back the way we had come, toward the boat landing. Having failed to force notebook and pen into my hands, Schmidt was trying to make notes. Considering the state of the road and the taxi’s springs, I doubted he would be able to decipher his scrawled writing, but it kept him busy and happy. The scenery was monotonous in the extreme, stretches of barren earth reaching back to equally barren cliffs—all shades of tan and brown, with an occasional vivid patch of green. I didn’t criticize, since I knew I’d be jumped on by the experts, who would start pointing out fascinating heaps of rubble and telling me what they were.

The taxi stopped in front of a cluster of houses that clung to a rocky hillside. They looked like square boxes, randomly placed, but they were the most interesting things my uneducated eyes had seen since we left the Valley. Some of the flat facades were painted shining white or golden yellow or faded blue, some had scenes of people and camels, ships and airplanes, in nonchalant juxtaposition.

“I thought the authorities were moving these people to a new village,” said Mr. Know-It-All Schmidt, without looking up.

“They’re about to.” Feisal got out of the front seat and wrestled with the back door, which had no inside handle. It gave way finally and I got out. “We’ll have to walk from here,” Feisal went on. “Ali’s house is farther up, near the tomb of Ramose.”

“It is a pity,” Schmidt said. “They have lived here for centuries.”

“And earned a good living robbing the tombs under the houses,” Feisal said. “I know, Schmidt, the place is picturesque as hell, and
the Gurnawis have fought the move tooth and nail, but it has to be done.”

It was picturesque, if you don’t mind a lot of dust and stray dogs and barefoot children pestering innocent tourists. Some tried to peddle hideously fake scarabs and small figurines, others just demanded baksheesh. Feisal yelled at them in Arabic. Some of them backed off; the bolder ones circled us and came in from the rear. Schmidt stopped and dug in his bulging pocket. First he produced the magnifying glass, which inspired gasps of longing from the kids. One of them, a skinny boy wearing a ragged T-shirt, reached out. Feisal swatted his hand away.

“Don’t give them anything, Schmidt; they have to learn not to beg. That’s one of the reasons why we’re moving them; tourists complain about being hassled.”

“They are poor,” Schmidt said. “If you had so little, would you not beg?”

He put the magnifying glass back and came up with a handful of ballpoint pens. They were obviously popular substitutes for cash. The distribution process got a little agitated, with the bigger youngsters snatching from the little ones, and Schmidt in the thick of the melee, scolding and snatching back. A wave of affection swept over me as I watched him. He was a soft-hearted pushover. If there were more like him, the world wouldn’t be such a sad place.

Finally Feisal dispersed the young villains with a roar. A few ran on ahead. By the time we reached Ali’s house, our arrival had been announced.

The summer temperatures in Egypt hover around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The houses have thick walls and small windows to keep out the heat, and the room seemed pitch-black after the blinding brightness outside. As my eyes adjusted I saw that the room was packed with people, mostly women and children, some seated on a
low cushioned divan along the side wall, some squatting on the floor. The shadowy forms and bright unblinking eyes were a little uncanny. How long had they been sitting there, unmoving as statues? They couldn’t have known we were coming. I got a grip on myself. Obviously our arrival had been announced even earlier than I’d thought, probably the moment Feisal got out of the taxi.

One of the women stood up and greeted Feisal. I recognized the formal
“Salaam aleikhum,”
to which Feisal responded. He knew better than to cut the formalities short; we were offered seats on the divan and glasses of steaming tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. I got a place next to the woman who had welcomed us. Surely she couldn’t be Ali’s wife. Women wore out fast, but her face was as withered as those of the better-looking mummies in the museum. She was enveloped in black, head, arms, and body—the traditional garb of the previous generation, which most modern women have modified or abandoned—and when she smiled at me and spoke, I saw she was missing most of her teeth. But the eyes, half-hidden by sagging lids, were as bright and piercing as those of a bird of prey.